


Two Sides of a Double-Faced Coin

by TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG



Series: Hot For Teacher [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Hate Sex, Jealousy, M/M, POV Quentin Beck, Porn, Secret Relationship, Self Confidence Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-13 05:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20577305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG/pseuds/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG
Summary: God, how he wishes he were anywhere but here.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still slogging away on this series but with Real Life TM and other projects, it's been slow going. Not abandoned, though!

It’s already dark when Quentin unlocks the hotel room’s door, the first to arrive to their… well, he supposes it’s a _date_. The thought makes something uncomfortable settle into the pit of his stomach, a harsh, bitter feeling that he can’t quite name.

He lets the door fall shut behind him and leans back against it, thumps his head against it, once, breathes sharply through his nose.

A short while from now, Tony Stark will walk through this door, come to fuck _his_ Peter.

Because despite his lofty words to the man that first night, no, he really doesn’t like sharing the boy. Seeing him get fucked until he was barely able to form words any more had been… inspiring, in a sense, to see him get taken apart like that. Quentin won’t deny that he enjoyed it.

But did it have to be _Tony Stark_, of all the people in this fucking city?

He pushes himself away from the door, shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it up in the closet. He realises he’s going through the motions as he loosens and pulls off his tie, as he pops the top buttons of his shirt, because he really can’t think about this too closely right now.

His mind has been going in circles ever since Peter let slip those fateful words. A week later, he is still reeling from the emotional punch to the gut, and he feels a little guilty for not saying it back. Peter hasn’t mentioned it since then, even though he could see the desire to do so very clearly when they went out for dinner the day after, but… Quentin just can’t.

He adores the boy, he really does, but… is that what love is? And doesn’t the fact that he has to think about it tell him everything he needs to know in that regard? Surely he should just know whether or not he loves Peter without having to spend days thinking about it.

When Peter had asked to see him and Stark, Quentin’s first impulse had been to say, “Absolutely not”. The mere thought of having to watch Peter kiss the other man again, to listen to him beg his ‘_Mister Stark_’ in that sweet, breathless voice – it had sent a white hot rage coursing through him. But Peter had looked at him with such hope in his eyes, and he had remembered what he’d told Stark – what Peter wants, Peter gets.

And so he finds himself back in the hotel, and he drops into one of the armchairs, stares out into the night.

God, how he wishes he were anywhere but here.

There’s a knock on the door only a little later, and he heaves himself out of the chair. He hopes, fervently, that it’s Peter, that he won’t have to sit here with Stark and wait, but of course he doesn’t get what he wants. He rarely does.

Tony stands outside, fiddling with his cuff when Quentin opens the door, and his face twists in obvious distaste before he smooths it into polite neutrality. “Beck.”

Quentin steps aside to let the man pass. “Stark.”

“Peter here yet?” He breezes past Quentin, and he can see the man’s shoulders fall a little when he realises they’re alone.

“No,” he says, not so secretly pleased with Tony’s obvious disappointment. He lets the door fall closed and makes his way over to the mini bar. “Drink?”

“Sure, why not.” Tony shrugs out of his jacket, drops it on the desk. “Whiskey, if they have it.”

Quentin rolls his eyes as he bends and opens the little door, as he pulls out two of the little bottles of Scotch. He pours for them and hands one of the glasses over, then sinks back into his chair. Tony seats himself on the couch, stretches his legs out and crosses them at the ankle.

The silence that descends on them could be almost comfortable, if it weren’t for the always underlying tension between them. It’s always been there, long before Peter. Quentin doesn’t quite know where it comes from. Sure, he can’t stomach the other man’s cockiness but that’s not really enough to base a dislike so deep on.

A nasty little voice in the back of his brain says it’s jealousy, that he’s always hated the fact that Stark is undoubtedly smarter, more gifted than him. He knows that voice only too well. It’s the same one that tells him that he is Peter’s consolation prize, that if Stark had given him the time of day, Peter would never have ended up with Quentin. He hates that voice almost as much as he hates Stark, because it’s his own voice.

Because he knows it’s true.

He tilts his glass, watches the liquid swirl around. Stark watches him from the corner of his eye, and Quentin smirks. It tugs painfully at his face. “Peter told me… He said he loves me.”

Tony’s face shutters immediately. It’s almost amusing to watch. “That’s...” He swallows, his throat clicking. “That’s nice for you.”

Quentin scoffs, takes a sip of his whiskey. “Nice. Yeah.”


	2. Chapter 2

After another moment, Stark says, “I presume you said it back,” and when Quentin doesn’t reply, he sets his glass down on the table by the couch. “You didn’t,” and his voice wavers with incredulity.

“What does it matter to you?”

Stark opens his mouth, closes it again. Looks down at his shoes for a long moment, before he says, “It’s none of my business.”

“Damn right it’s not.”

He watches Stark then, silently, as the man fidgets, fiddles with his cuffs again – who the hell wears cufflinks any more – looks at his watch. Something dark and vindictive in him purrs at the image, at realising how his statement has unbalanced the other man.

His phone rings then, with Peter’s assigned ring tone. His brow knits, confused. “Hi, honey,” he greets, sets his glass down on the desk.

“Hey,” Peter breathes into his own phone, and he can hear the smile in his voice.

“Will you be long? We’re waiting for you.” His eyes flick over to Stark, who tries (and fails) to hide his eagerness.

“That’s what I’m calling about,” Peter says, and he sounds extremely uncomfortable. “Ned has a stomach bug, like, a really bad one. I can’t leave him alone like this, and I also don’t want to get you guys sick.” He can hear Ned moaning in the background, a sound of suffering, and Quentin’s mouth twists. “I’m so sorry, Q, he’s really not doing good at all.” Shuffling, then, “Could we reschedule, maybe?”

He wants to say no. The thought of having to go through this again makes him almost ill. But again there is such hope in Peter’s voice that he just… can’t deny him. “Sure, darling. It’s not your fault, okay?” Peter hums, and he says, “I’ll call you tomorrow?”

“Please,” Peter replies, so sweetly.

They say their goodbyes, and when he has hung up, he cocks an eyebrow at Stark. “He’s not coming. His room mate is sick and he doesn’t want us to catch whatever it is he has.”

Tony’s mouth twitches, his disappointment clear on his face. “Well. Then there’s no reason to linger.” He picks up his glass again and drains it in one gulp, licks his lips. “It’s been a pleasure,” he says, voice dripping with irony, and something hot and ugly flares in Quentin’s gut.

“Why do you hate me so much?”

Tony stops halfway through pulling on his jacket, looks at Quentin, eyebrows raised. “I wouldn’t call it hate, exactly.” He slips his arms into the sleeves and tugs the garment into place, something that isn’t quite a sneer on his lips. “I don’t have a lot of respect for you, that’s all.”

Quentin sees red. He’s on his feet before he realises, his hand closing around the other man’s wrist as he tugs him around, and he knows he’s pretty much snarling at Tony. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Tony stares up at him, eyes unreadable. He’s not pulling away, not exactly, but there’s tension in his arm. “Apparently I’m the guy _your boyfriend_ went and fucked at the first opportunity.” His voice drips with disdain, and Quentin wants to punch him.

Instead he lets go, shoves his hands into his pockets. “You almost walked in on us once,” he says, and a muscle ticks in Tony’s jaw. “When I told you that bullshit story about spider videos on YouTube.”

“That was Peter in there with you?”

Quentin can’t keep the smile off his face, and he knows it must be an ugly thing. “I was still balls deep inside him when you knocked.”

He would be lying if he said he didn’t know about Peter’s crush long before he brought it up then. He’d noticed the little looks, so full of badly hidden longing, that Peter would sometimes direct at Tony when he thought nobody was watching him. It had planted the idea in his head in the first place, and now he wants nothing more than strangle his younger self. Peter would never have acted on his infatuation if Quentin hadn’t fed it.

Stark is staring at him, hands fisted at his sides. “Why are you telling me this?”

Quentin ignores him. “I only had to mention your name, and he was _begging_ me to fuck him. Came all over my desk at the idea of choking on your dick.” Tony sucks in a breath through his nose, and Quentin chuckles. “You’d probably just have to say the word, and he’d send me packing.”

Tony tears his eyes away at that. “He told you he loves you, didn’t he? Why would he do that if he really wants me?”

And there it is, the one part of this that Quentin just can’t wrap his brain around.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I just… I wanna know what he sees in you,” Quentin says, quietly, and it’s too much. Stark draws back, steps out of his reach.

“Fuck if I know.” He clears his throat, and Quentin thinks he looks almost nervous now. “I should go.”

Some momentary madness comes over him. It must, for there is no other explanation for what comes out of his mouth next. “Should you?”


End file.
